Losing Touch
by rinkaku
Summary: With a glance to the sea, it is said that a pure maiden is bound forever to its depths. Romano wagers, however, that his sea-side view is no longer a daunting reminder, but rather, an unneeded reassurance. One-Shot. Spain/Romano.


**Pairing:** Spain x Romano

**Rating:** T

**Warnings:** swearing, minor angst, fluff and tickling.

**Author's Note:** A request I took ages to fulfill. I hope you enjoy it~!

**Disclaimer:** Hidekaz Himaruya-sensei owns Hetalia and all its characters; I do not.

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><p><strong>( Courage is found )<strong>

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><p>Romano scrunches up his nose and the skin near his eyes wrinkle a little as his body suddenly awakens itself. He groans a little, an annoyed but flat sound, rubbing his face unceremoniously against his pillow before stopping. In his hazed consciousness that lasts a brief count of seconds, he acknowledges the lulling ache deep in the pit of his chest that throbs to life. It sings a sorrowful tune; a sombre and melancholic one- his heart correspondingly beating at a painfully slow and hard pace that he has to stifle back a sound of hurt.<p>

To say this sort of morning is commonplace would be a lie, but it is neither regular or irregular; rather, Romano's learned to give up trying to pinpoint when they will occur. Generally, he'll receive some sort of warning sign in his light slumber- always seconds before his eyelids are fluttering open in a haste, of their own accord and nearly own thought- and its just as always the same one. His dream-self's little feet scrambling to find purchase on the slightly cold sand, somewhat damp and clinging to his childishly-soft skin as he runs faster and faster.

He can almost recall how the ocean breeze slapped at his tiny self, gulping it down in wheezing breaths to further express his youth but he won't stop running, he won't ever stop running _he can't when he finally sees that outline that he's forced to memorize from fear of forgetting_. His hands tremble and he's tempted to stop in his tracks because it all seems too good to be true but he doesn't, he forces his little, unpracticed legs to keep pumping until he's finally reaching the shoreline and he's crying as he pants because _he can see him, that filthy, tattered coat billowing and dying out in oceanic gusts_. He tries regulating his breathing but finds he's forced down enough salty air that he's left practically dry-heaving all over the muddy sand, tears spilling from his eyes and stinging and ruining his vision but he never manages to get the sound he wants **out**, it never consummates into the syllable he's grown to cherish.

"Nhng... R-Roma?" a sleep-laced voice seduces him from his possible panic-attack, amber eyes searching hysterically in the thick darkness that's enveloped his room for anything familiar, a tangible link to that voice- _a sign_.

He hears a tired sigh, but not one tired of him; the figure's slouched posture expresses his exhaustion and Romano almost kicks himself before he realizes he's uncurled himself from his makeshift blanket cocoon and opened the side of it in invitation. With only the flicker of candlelight in the hall providing some semblance of illumination, he is unknowingly smiling when he catches the soft tone of emerald eyes attempting to blink sleep away. He chuckles a little, then, muttering a few derogatory words at his lover but the Spaniard simply chuckles them away as he steps closer into their room, careful to close the door as he quietly slinks in. He waits a little at the side of their bed, his head tilted slightly and Romano can faintly make out the shadow of a frown on his face.

He's unsure if it was ever there, however, when Spain finally slips into the opening and immediately curls himself around the Italian.

Romano tenses for a moment, his heart hitched in his throat but it soon calms itself down and he's promptly dissolving in the embrace. He knows Spain is worried- despite the facade of naivete that the brunette knows so well to wear, he can sense it, _feel it_- but shoves down the previous discomfort that had lingered from his nightmare. He wonders, for a few seconds, if the reason Spain had checked up on him so coincidentally had been because he'd slipped something out in his fear.

This momentary worry, though, is placated when he hears and feels the purr-like rumbling coming from the Spaniard's chest.

Shaking his head a little, Romano bats away teasing Spanish hands and giggles when those brunette locks rub knowingly against his ticklish nape. His giggles turn into outright laughter when Spain is soon seeking further purchase on his ribs, under his arms, touches softer when he reaches his belly and there's a break in his laughter when Spain's wandering hands reach the bare flesh of his hips. It's not the frightening thought that he shouldn't have done so- no, their relationship had long since passed that. His laughter is broken by the soft moan that is coaxed from him as the Spaniard shifts a little, so now Romano is comfortably on his back and he's straddling him, hands caressing the smooth texture of his bare skin, and it's only when Romano arches a little closer to Spain's heat that the brunette smiles softly.

"Did you have a bad dream again, amor?"

Romano doesn't notice how he's suddenly averted his eyes to the right, gazing yearningly at the crashing tides of the sea outside. Spain does, however; but says nothing and merely leans down to plant a chaste kiss to his forehead.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

The Italian betrays none of his sincere emotions, but it is the tact itself that lets Spain know everything he'll ever need to know.

" …Sleep with me tonight, Spain?"

He is diverted from his thoughts when Romano whispers this, his cheeks flushing a soft pink as Romano wiggles a little beneath him. Although temptation is rampant in his mind and his body coerces that nothing wrong could come of it, Spain merely takes one of Romano's hands to his lips and tenderly kisses it in response.

"_Por supuesto, amor_." he whispers gently, flipping himself so he's now curled at the Italian's side once more. "Of course I will."

Romano grumbles a little when his head is tucked underneath Spain's chin, but doesn't rebel when those warm, tan hands encircle his nude waist in a protective manner.

"Spain… do you think I could… ask you something?"

The brunette forces himself out of his near slumber and peeks open an eyelid, curious emerald answering him that _S__í__, go ahead, ask me anything!_

Wringing his hands a little within the softer, almost baby curls at the brunette's nape, the younger redhead hides himself so far into his shoulder Spain strains to hear him at all. However, when he does make his inquiry, it is enough to make Spain tense.

"You don't ever think about being a Conquistador anymore, do you?"

Romano glances up, his head scooting a little away from its previous holster atop his bare shoulder. Olive-flecked amber enrapture lively emerald, a flurry of emotions rampant in the latter's eyes- but just as soon, they are divested and the Spaniard is kissing his forehead in a placating manner.

"Well, I'd be lying if I said no." he holds the Italian closer to him when he tenses in his hold, but before Romano can shoot off in misunderstood inquiries like he usually does, Spain elaborates. "I remember every now and then what it felt like to have been so powerful. The right to be called an Empire, _'the empire on __which the Sun never sets'_, all of my former colonies... it's not something you can easily forget about even if you wanted, you see?"

The redhead nods minutely in his understanding, grunting a little for the Spaniard to continue.

"It's very nostalgic, so to speak. But..." the Southern Italian is shocked when he glimpses the sudden dewiness of his eyes, and realizes he himself is crying a little, already, too. "I can also never forget those terrible nights where I only thought of you. I couldn't bear those nights, I was absolutely restless and no amount of alcohol could distill my pain; you can ask Mexico and Bolivia- they'll testify to it."

His humor is a little wry and entirely guilty, but Romano acknowledges very well that all- or nearly all, anyways- of Spain's former colonies have forgiven him for the terror and anguish he'd inflicted upon them.

"I could only think of you, Romano." Spain is promptly digging his own face into the redhead's shoulder; a flush of embarrassment and distress upon his cheeks. "You hated me so much, back then, and rightfully so. I would leave you for months on end and expected you to be just as loving when I did return, even though I could tell that you spent most nights without sleep, too.

I always figured, if I lavished you with gifts when I returned, it would all be okay. I would still be a good Boss in your eyes, and you wouldn't want to leave my side. I didn't want you to want to leave my side. I- …I was so much like England, and I didn't even know it."

There's a sharp silence hanging in the air, tense in the shadow of the two nations revelations. Romano, finally stirred when the faint sound of waves lapping onto a shore reaches his ears, finds himself holding the mutely crying Spaniard closer to himself; hands busying themselves in the curls at his nape that make his hair look longer than it really is. _Maybe because I still remember what his hair looked like back then, in that stupid ponytail_. Romano sighs a little warily, a tired smile on him as he shakes the thought away.

Although he now realizes _who_ the figure was in his dreams that always had him running to the perpetually distant shore, the shore that drank away all the trinkets he would throw in fits and tantrums and general loathing when it was just him at home- he loved the sea. Regardless of how often it tempted his beloved to leave him lonely and crying for days on end, until he forget the difference between his tears and those that sprung from the ocean, nothing could ever elate him more than when he would spot that familiar outline upon the shore. Crimson coat, bloody and tattered clinging to his equally worn self, Spain would grin at him regardless of the various days they hadn't seen one another.

Romano had fallen in love with the sea, because every time Spain left, it always returned him to his side.

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><p><strong>( in unlikely places. )<strong>


End file.
